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Janine had been inside only a minute or two. According to Nic, no one in the nearby shops or offices had seen her. They hadn’t seen anything suspicious.
But until Janine was formally cleared, they’d all be on edge.
The coffee had cooled enough that it didn’t scald the roof of her mouth, like it had the other day. Which came first, the broken marriage or the broken partnership? Had there been arguments over betrayal, or money?
She did not envy Leo the task of wading through that cesspool. Jeremy had once had two senior managers who’d been best friends until one man’s flirtation with the other’s wife, also an employee, turned into an affair, and the fallout had been ugly. Ultimately, all three had left, taking with them knowledge and experience nearly impossible to replace, and leaving a sense of distrust that lingered for months.
But, murder?
“Here you go, Miss Sarah,” Deb said as she set a white plate in front of her. Pie, oh pie, we love pie, the chorus in her head sang at the sight of the flaky, golden crust, deep purple goo oozing out between the strips of lattice. “The family favorite. Your mom loves it, and Leo always orders a slice when he comes in. I haven’t seen him lately. Murder on his menu.”
Figured she’d know who Sarah was without an introduction—a waitress’s role in a small town. A movement at the other end of the counter caught her attention. A short, fiftyish woman with dark skin and close-cropped hair, tugging on a sage green blazer.
A Black woman. Okay, so Deer Park had changed.
Deb waved at the departing customer. Sarah picked up her fork and cut the first bite. Before it reached her mouth, Deb called out. “Crust first. I win.”
Mouth full, Sarah let her eyes ask what that was about.
“Some people take a bite of the crust first and work their way across.” Deb mimed the action with her hand. “Other people start at the tip and work their way to the crust.”
“Does it mean something? And what do you win?”
“Not a thing, and not a thing.” Deb flashed her a grin. “Just café nonsense.” She topped off Sarah’s coffee and moved down the counter.
Sarah rested the fork on the plate and picked up her coffee. How could she possibly eat another bite, knowing she might have prevented all this? If she hadn’t dragged Jeremy out on the long ride. Hadn’t suggested they rest a bit at the homestead shack by the pond after they unsaddled the horses, since he wasn’t an experienced rider. Hadn’t said yes, when Jeremy’s eyes and hands asked.
Hadn’t listened when Holly insisted her dream meant nothing, hadn’t persuaded Janine to move on.
She picked up her phone. Distracted herself, replying to texts from Abby and the house sitter, listening to a voice mail from a friend. Saw the reminder for tomorrow’s phone appointment with her therapist. What would the woman say, if she knew what Sarah was thinking? “Are you perhaps imagining yourself a tad too powerful? Forgetting that other people made choices to act as they did?”
Lucas sent those letters. He’d wanted to make sure Janine and Holly kept their mouths shut. To keep the past in the past, making sure no one brought up rumors that he’d once attacked a girl out at Whitetail Lodge. The good old boy sheriff had retired years ago. He was probably long dead. Had any deputies on scene heard Janine’s accusations? Had
Misty Erickson or Dan Fleming dug up the truth, and tried to use it against him?
None of that had anything to do with her. It was Lucas’s actions, not hers, that had started this long ugly chain.
But whose actions had ended it?
14
The pickup in front of her, pulling a boat on a trailer, signaled for the turn off Lake Street into the marina, and Sarah stopped behind him. Glanced over at the historic Lake Hotel, a FOR RENT sign plastered across the closed café. Why had it closed? Good food, great location. Fabulous views. The summer before her father died, she and Jeremy had motored down the lake one sunny afternoon and met Peggy and JP for a drink and a bite on the stone patio.
Loud rock she couldn’t identify blared from the truck’s open window. Deb the waitress’s ex with his shiny new toys bought with hidden assets? The driver was waiting for a young woman pushing a stroller to cross the street. About a quarter of the docks were full, a mix of power boats and sailboats. That would change big-time this weekend, if the weather held. Yes, town was quiet in the off-season but with only the Spruce and the bowling alley for competition, surely this was a great spot for a decent café.
A few minutes later, she parked in front of her parents’ house. Her mother’s house. Glanced up at her corner room, as she always did. Lights were on, and a figure moved in and out of view. Her mother was home, working in the studio.
Bag on her shoulder and a go-box with a slice of pie for her mother in hand, she marched up to the door. Peggy wouldn’t hear her, might not have noticed her pull up outside.
Locked, again.
No need to check behind the downspout for the spare key. Instead, she circled around the house, passing under the old rose arbor, the canes beginning to turn green, to the back yard. Cones and branches littered the grass and deck, along with tiny yellow blossoms from the forsythia and pink petals from the neighbor’s flowering crab. Considering last night’s wind, it was good that her mother hadn’t gotten out the deck furniture yet, or filled the huge terra cotta pots stacked under the eave.
She didn’t bother knocking. Inside, she set her bag and the pie on the kitchen counter, next to a used coffee cup. Her mother had never been one of those artists who lost track of time or forgot to eat, likely because she’d snuck painting between work and family for so long. It hadn’t become her focus until she retired from teaching. After JP’s death, she’d stopped painting for a while, brushing off her kids’ concern. Now, Sarah understood. If her mother had found the spark again, good, even if that kept her from paying attention to other things.
One foot on the bottom step, Sarah glanced into the living room with its high ceilings and tall windows, the decor a quirky mix of new and old, her father’s bronze urn on the fireplace mantel. What was that line from the poem, about arriving home and recognizing the place for the first time? This hadn’t been her home, the place where she lived, for a long time, and neither had the lodge, long her second home, but her heart would always recognize them both.
She started up the staircase. The wall had been covered with family portraits when she was growing up, but now held only one painting, a large oil Peggy had done of Bitterroot Lake. At the landing, where the staircase turned, she called out. “Hey, Mom, it’s me.” The smell of paint mingled with the raw odor of brush cleaner.
